


stay eighteen forever.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: teen wolf bingo! [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Background Relationships, Established Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Allison Argent/Malia Tate, Piercings, Recreational Drug Use, Summer Vacation, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just before the end of senior year, Scott and Stiles cross (or blur) the line between friendship and something more.  Over summer vacation, they dabble in graffiti, drinking and trespassing to escape the summer heat, their constant companions being music and weed.  </p><p>By summer’s end, it’s clear that they aren’t letting go of each other anytime soon, even if they’re letting go of Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stay eighteen forever.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the latest of my pet projects that I've been working on for literally months. it goes along with [this fanmix](http://8tracks.com/doctorkaitlyn/stay-eighteen-forever), although the songs only loosely correspond to certain parts of the story. i'm also using this as the summer vacation square on my Teen Wolf Bingo card! 
> 
> please note that this story does contain underage drinking, quite a bit of marijuana use, a piercing scene and some other reckless behaviour, none of which I necessarily endorse. if any of those are squicks, it might be best to skip over this. otherwise, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> title from [Soco Amaretto Lime](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKBRdjkYTYE) by Brand New, which basically served as the soundtrack for this whole story.

The day before final exams, Stiles gives Scott a guitar.

He’d picked it up at a police auction that his dad let him go to, part of a lot filled with miscellaneous items formerly belonging to a drug dealer.  It’s a little bit battered; the finish is scratched and peeling in a few spots and there are some faded stickers stuck to it but when he hands it over, Scott’s face lights up like the sun.

“Seriously, this is for me?” he asks, brushing his fingers along the rough strings. Stiles nods, knee bumping against Scott’s, gnawing on a hangnail. 

“All yours, buddy. I can get you some varnish for it, if you want. Or at least peel off the stickers.” Scott shakes his head and rubs his thumb over a flaking sticker, so faded that he can’t even tell what it was advertising once upon a time.

“Actually, I kinda like it like this,” he says, squeezing Stiles’ knee before he gently sets his fingers over the frets, making the only chord he knows.  When he strums, Stiles winces slightly.  He’s almost completely tone deaf but even he can tell that the guitar is completely out of tune.

“Maybe I should have picked up a tuner,” he mutters.  Scott sighs and sets the guitar aside, dropping both of his hands back onto Stiles’ knees.

“It’s fine.”  He smiles broadly, rubs his thumbs in circles along the skin exposed through the holes in Stiles’ jeans.  “I love it.”  Stiles smiles back and lays his hands on top of Scott’s, twisting their fingers together when Scott flips his palm-up.  It’s been a few weeks since they crossed (or blurred) the line between friends and something else and he’s still getting used to this, getting used to not having to hold back from touching Scott and smiling at him like he hung the moon.

And he’s definitely still getting used to the absolutely amazing feeling that comes with kissing Scott.  He doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ get used to that. 

x.

It’s only been an hour since school officially let out for summer, but Stiles and Scott are already celebrating.  

They’re on the floor, pressed together from head to toe, backpacks and shoes kicked into a corner.  There’s a glass of murky water within reach, full of the remnants of their first joint, which they lit up almost as soon as they got inside.  Now, they’re on their second and they’re _just_ starting to feel the effects.  

Stiles is _never_ buying weed from Greenberg again, no matter how desperate he is to get high.  His shit is _weak_.    

Even with Scott’s window open, the room is filled with smoke, swirling above their heads like paint on a palette.  Scott’s mom isn’t supposed to be back from work for a few more hours but every time he hears a car drive by, he stiffens for a moment, waiting to see if that sound is followed by gravel crunching underneath tires.  

“Scotty, she’d call if she was coming home early,” Stiles says after Scott goes quiet for the fifth time in as many minutes.  “She always does.”     

“I know,” Scott replies.   The words get a little garbled because Stiles unceremoniously sticks their joint in Scott’s mouth mid-sentence.  He takes a deep inhale and nods when he’s had enough.  

“You feeling okay?” Stiles asks, glancing sideways and sticking the joint back in the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying to channel James Dean.  It’s something he does every single time they smoke up, but Scott doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it makes Stiles look ridiculous.  

“Feeling great,” Scott sighs contentedly.  His inhaler is in his bag but he doesn’t think that he’ll need it.  After only a moment of contemplation, he moves so that he can rest his head on Stiles’ stomach.  A quick _oomph_ leaves Stiles’ mouth (Scott doesn’t know his own strength, never has) but then he drops his hand to Scott’s head and starts running his fingers through Scott’s hair.  It’s starting to grow out again and the red streak he put in it is rapidly fading.

“Gonna have to dye your hair again,” Stiles mutters, twisting a dyed piece around his finger.  Scott mumbles something incoherent and reaches up to grab Stiles’ hand.  Their fingers automatically twist together and rest at the bottom of Stiles’ ribs.  With his free hand, Stiles takes one last hit off their joint before leaning down to press the last of the nub between Scott’s lips.  After that, it goes into the murky glass of water.  But they don’t move; they continue to lay there for what feels like hours, fingers twisted together, grinning at the ceiling.         

There’s nothing before them but the arrival of Scott’s mom and the months of summer vacation, stretching out before them into what feels like infinity.

x.

“Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?” Stiles asks.  It’s the eighth time he’s asked in the last fifteen minutes.  His complexion is downright pallid and Scott would find it a little funny if it wasn’t so concerning.

“Stiles,” Allison says firmly, backing away from him slightly and sticking her tongue out.  There’s a silver barbell in the middle of it and she clacks it once off the back of her teeth.  “If I can do _that_ without hurting myself, piercing your nose is going to be a breeze.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Scott says as Allison wipes Stiles’ nose with some kind of antiseptic gel.  “It’s just a-”

“I know,” Stiles interrupts, voice sharper than usual.  “But I want to.”  As soon as Allison starts opening the package that contains her brand new needle, Stiles slams his eyes closed.  His hand flails out until it grabs Scott’s and he squeezes tightly.  

“Don’t open your eyes,” Scott says, glancing over at Allison.  

“Don’t plan on it, Scotty,” Stiles says, forcing a laugh that trails off into a mutter as Allison moves closer and lays one hand on his face.  There’s a fine-tip black marker in her hand and as soon as it touches his nose, Stiles’ entire body jolts.  

“Was that it?” he asks hurriedly.  “That wasn’t so bad if-”

“No,” Allison says.  Quick as a whip, she’s switched out the marker for her needle.  “ _This_ is it.”  Before Stiles can open his mouth again, her fingers tighten on his face and she presses the needle through his nose in one smooth motion.  There’s a quiet popping sound and, if possible, Stiles goes even paler.  His fingers squeeze Scott’s hard enough to leave bruises and a chant of _oh god_ falls from his lips right up to the point where Allison finishes threading a new silver hoop through the fresh hole.

“You’re good!” she proclaims, lightly slapping the side of Stiles’ face and gathering up her supplies.  “ _Don’t_ play with it!”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles absently says.  His fingers are already brushing over the piercing and a hiss passes through his teeth as he pokes the ring.  After a few moments, he swings around on his chair and jumps onto Scott’s lap.  

“How’s it look?” he asks, moving so that he’s fully straddling Scott.  Stiles is still incredibly pale but there’s a wild grin on his face and a trickle of blood staining his inflamed nose.

“Fucking rad,” Scott answers truthfully, curling his hands around Stiles’ hips.  “Told you it wouldn’t hurt too much.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Stiles mutters, leaning in and tugging at Scott’s lip ring with his teeth.  When he lets go, Scott leans up to kiss him, carefully tilting his head so that he doesn’t bump against Stiles’ fresh piercing.       

By the time Allison throws a book at them and tells them to make out somewhere else, Stiles’ nose has stopped bleeding.

x.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous night and the scent of rain is thick on every gust of wind.  If Stiles squints, he can almost see the stars through the light pollution that lays over Beacon Hills like a tight dress.  He tilts his head back against the brick wall and sighs, digging his fingers into his pocket to see if he can find another joint.

“How’s it going over there?” he asks, making a triumphant noise when his fingers close around the tiny baggie buried underneath a few receipts.

“I am _terrible_ at this,” Scott groans, taking a few steps back from the wall that he’s attempting to use as a canvas.  Distance doesn’t make things look any better.  While he’s been attempting to make his hands cooperate with him for the better part of an hour, he’s just ended up with fingers covered in spray paint and a multi-colored blob decorating the bricks.

“C’mon, it doesn’t look that bad,” Stiles says, scrambling for his lighter.  He pauses for only a few moments, wary of the paint fumes, before he shrugs and moves over to the very edge of the roof.  He resolutely doesn’t look down; sure, it’s only a three story fall, but breaking his leg is not something he wants to add to his list of summer experiences.

“Do you even know what I’m trying to paint?” Scott asks with a raised eyebrow and a slightly forlorn smile.  Stiles squints through the cloud of fresh smoke billowing around his face.  He _thinks_ that Scott may have been trying to sign his name like the tags they used to see decorating the train cars that passed through town, but it’s mainly an illegible smear of yellow and blue and pink.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles shrugs.  “It still looks better than what was there before.”  

“True,” Scott agrees.   The wall had previously been decorated by faded paint marking a slur that made Scott’s skin crawl.  That fact is one of the reasons why he doesn’t feel more than a slight current of guilt about defacing the building. 

Stiles doesn’t see the big deal either.  The building’s been abandoned for years and the _for sale_ sign has almost been covered by the weeds growing in what used to be the parking lot.  He’s sure that even his dad wouldn’t care if he knew what they were doing. 

“I like what you did,” Scott says, laying down his paint can and sitting beside Stiles, back against the low wall that runs along the edge of the roof.  Stiles snorts before passing the joint over to Scott.

“Dude, it’s the simplest thing I could think of,” he says through a plume of smoke.  He’d known from past practice on other buildings and scraps of wood hauled home from the dump that there was no way in hell that he could imitate the work of professional graffiti artists.  So instead, he painted a massive heart with an arrow through it in order to cover up another piece of disgusting graffiti someone had left behind.

“I still like it,” Scott replies, coughing slightly.  “Even if it’s a little crooked.”  

“I was just trying to channel you,” Stiles murmurs, leaning over and rubbing his thumb over Scott’s slightly crooked jaw.  There’s a small scar near the dip of his chin from when they were six and Scott fell off the monkey bars and Stiles leans over to press his lips against it.  He can feel Scott’s face stretching into a smile and he presses another kiss against the corner of Scott’s mouth, catching a little bit of smoke in the process.   

“You know, _both_ of us suck compared to Kira,” Scott replies, eyes half-open.  Stiles huffs out a warm laugh against his cheek and in the seconds that pass before Stiles leans away and takes the joint with him, Scott feels himself, impossibly, fall even harder.      

x.

Sometimes, Scott can’t sleep.  Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he just can’t slip into dreams; he stays balanced on the edge of a cliff for hours, growing more and more exhausted but unable to release his grip on the waking world.  When he was younger, he would fight against these bouts but eventually, he learned that fighting only made things worse.

So now, when he can’t sleep, he goes for a ride.  He keeps his dirt bike in the garage; instead, he takes the ten-speeder he’s had since he was thirteen, the one with the dingy paint job and slightly bent frame.  It keeps him from waking his mom up and sometimes, just cycling around the block a few times is enough to tire him out.

If Stiles is staying over when Scott has one of his bouts, he wakes up as soon as Scott’s feet touch the ground.  Even when he’s nearly incoherent with exhaustion, he insists on coming along and Scott doesn’t try to stop him.  If it’s one of the nights where Stiles is actually home, he almost always responds to Scott’s _are you awake_ texts.  

Stiles doesn’t sleep a lot either.  It’s not that he _can’t_ sleep; he just doesn’t like to.

Beacon Hills is almost entirely abandoned at three o’clock in the morning, even on the weekends. The traffic lights tick from red to green and back without a single vehicle going through them.  The sidewalks are empty and the businesses are darkened behind plate glass windows.  

Every street is theirs for the taking.   

It’s an exercise in trust, a trust that’s been solid for years.  Scott can barely see around Stiles, who perches on his handlebars, long legs dangling on either side of the front tire.  So instead of awkwardly craning his head and risking sending them off balance, Scott simply pedals.  Stiles calls back directions, long fingers wrapped around the handlebars, head tilted towards the sky.  Sometimes, aside from calling out left or right, Stiles doesn’t say a word.  Some nights, it feels like it would be crossing a line to break the silence that drapes over the entire town.  So he looks at the moon instead, tries to make out the stars, listens to the sound of Scott breathing behind him.

But there are times where it’s different, where Beacon Hills doesn’t feel like a sacred place, where it feels like a mere stopping over point in the course of their lives.  On those nights, they don’t shut up.  They strategize about video games, they talk about the latest conspiracy theory Stiles has become obsessed with, they analyze the lyrics of entire albums completely from memory.  

Sometimes, they sing, although neither of them are any good at it.  But Stiles thinks that some songs are just made to be yelled in the middle of the night.  Scott thinks that some songs only sound beautiful when they’re echoing through empty streets and off empty buildings.  

It’s the coolest night they’ve had in a week and Scott can feel goosebumps popping up on his legs as he pedals, automatically adjusting whenever Stiles shifts his weight.  They’re on a side street, near the high school, circling back towards Scott’s house.  They’re both in loose shorts and t-shirts (Stiles stole his from Scott a long time ago).  The streetlights are casting them both in swathes of orange and they’re both yelling the lyrics to the album they’ve been obsessed with for a few months now.  They’ve made it through the first three songs and as they start on the fourth, Stiles tilts his head back and yells into the sky, thrusting a middle finger at the low hanging clouds.  Scott has no idea _why_ Stiles is doing it, but he doesn’t think twice before joining in, throwing his head back and doing his best impression of a wolf.

Neither of them notice the pothole until they’re already falling.        

Scott lands first, limbs entangled with his bike.  The impact knocks the wind out of his lungs and for a few seconds, all he can do is lie on his back and try to pull air into his chest.  He hears the thud as Stiles hits the pavement ten feet away, but the source of the noise doesn’t register for a moment.  When it does, he immediately starts kicking at the bike, shoving it away from him and ripping his shorts in the process.

“Stiles!” he croaks, clambering to his hands and knees.  Stiles is laying on his side with his back towards Scott, knees drawn up towards his chest and Scott feels his stomach drop.  

“I’m okay,” Stiles groans.  Slowly, he extends his legs, hissing through his teeth as bolts of pain radiate through him.  He manages to roll onto his back just as Scott reaches him.

“Holy shit, Stiles, you’re bleeding,” Scott says, reaching towards Stiles’ face.  His fingers brush along Stiles’ chin and his upper lip and they come back soaked in crimson.  When Stiles swallows, the taste of blood is so thick that he nearly chokes on it.  

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters.  He reaches upwards as well, trailing his fingers along his nose.  It hurts a bit and it’s definitely bleeding (although most of the blood seems to be from biting through his lip) but it isn’t broken.  More importantly, the piercing that Allison did for him only a week ago doesn’t seem to be damaged in any way.  

“Thank God,” he sighs, lowering his hand and letting his head drop back down to the pavement. “I really didn’t want to have to get that repierced.” 

They walk back to Scott’s house with their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, limping on swollen ankles and banged up knees. Scott awkwardly pulls the bike with his free hand, noting that the frame is even more bent than it already was. He leaves it behind the house and uses a washcloth to clean the blood off both of them. They fall asleep on his bed, sprawled over each other, occasionally waking up from a dream to hiss in pain.

The next day, after work, Scott manages to hammer out the worst of the dings in the bike’s frame.  That night, when sleep again remains beyond his grasp, he sends Stiles a text to see if he’s awake.   

Stiles responds almost immediately.

_I’ll bring my helmet this time._

x.

Even with the window and door half-open, all Stiles can smell is chemicals.  

He’s sitting on the bathroom counter, stripped down to his boxers.  There’s a damp towel draped loosely around his neck and the fabric is streaked with hair dye.  Scott is standing in front of him, also bare-chested, gnawing on his lip as he slowly brushes blue dye over the bleached bits in Stiles’ hair.  

“Maybe I should try blue next time,” he says, letting the piece fall against Stiles’ forehead before starting on another one, just above his ear.  “It looks awesome.”  

“I like the red,” Stiles says, brushing his hand along the fresh red streak in Scott’s hair.  Although Scott spent twenty minutes bent over the sink rinsing the color out, the pads of Stiles’ fingers still come back slightly tinted red.  “What about red _and_ blue?  That would look fucking great.”

“I’m not sure how Deaton would feel about that,” Scott says, trying hard to imagine the reaction his placid boss would have.  “Or Mom for that matter.”  Before Stiles can concede that point, the bathroom door swings open.  His dad is standing on the other side, dressed in his full sheriff’s uniform, mouth hanging slightly open.  

“Uh,” Stiles says, freezing with one hand resting on Scott’s bare shoulder and the other inches away from Scott’s cheek.  “Hey there, Dad.  This is exactly what it looks like.”  Scott nods, ignoring the blue dye steadily dripping onto his wrist.  The sheriff stays motionless for a few moments before he sighs resignedly and pulls the door half-closed again.

“Well, whatever you do tonight,” he says from the other side of the door, “you better clean it up.”

By the time they finish, there’s dye streaking the counter.  They manage to get it cleaned up fairly easily, but as for the dye covering Scott’s wrist and arm?

Even after Stiles climbs into the shower to help Scott rinse it off, it’s days before his arm finally looks normal again.

x.

It’s a blazingly warm July night, the air thick with humidity, when Scott and Stiles head to a venue downtown to listen to a punk band whose bassist Allison is currently filling in for.  She has her own band that she plays in with her girlfriend and some of their other friends, but she’s one of the best bassists in town and it’s all too common for her to pop from playing with a thrash metal group one week and a folksy outfit the next.  

As soon as they step inside the sketchy bar, fake ID’s having miraculously worked, Scott starts to sweat.  The place is suffocatingly warm and packed with people from wall to wall, most of them holding alcohol and thrashing around to the first opening act.  The air rings with the sound of buzzsaw guitars and shouted words that Scott can’t understand, but a grin still spreads across his face.  

“I’ll see you later!” Stiles yells.  Or at least, Scott _thinks_ that’s what he says; even though Stiles literally yells right into his ear, the place is so loud that Scott can barely hear him.  Stiles plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek before he throws himself into the crowd.  Scott manages to shove his way to the bar and buy a beer and he tucks himself into a corner, where the view is good but he still has enough air.  Every so often, he gets a glimpse of Stiles, bouncing through the crowd, pale limbs flailing, tunelessly screaming along.  When he drifts back, during the intermission between the third band and the one Allison is playing in, he’s absolutely drenched in sweat.  His face is flushed and his hair is limp on his forehead, nearly straggling into his eyes.  The grin on his face is almost maniacal and he looks so incredible that Scott has to blink a few times, just to make sure that he isn’t hallucinating from the heat.

“Having fun?” he asks, passing Stiles his second bottle of beer.  

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles grins, tilting his head back and draining the bottle.  “You should come up with me.”  

“I forgot my inhaler,” Scott says with a reluctant shrug.  His ears are ringing so much that he can hardly hear his own voice.  “Should probably stay back here.”

“You wanna get some air before Allison comes on?” Stiles asks.  He may not have asthma, but the place is hot as an oven and while it might not be much better outside, it’ll still be nice to breathe air that doesn’t taste like beer and sweat.  Scott nods and leads the way outside, his fingers wrapped tight around Stiles’ wrist.  

It’s cooled down enough outside so that the sweat lingering on both of them starts to dry.  There are people crowded around the front of the venue, most of them smoking, yelling at each other in voices cracked from screaming along to the music.  Scott and Stiles step around them and head down the sidewalk, turning into the alley that runs around to the back of the building.  They can still hear the noise of the venue through the brick wall, but it’s more of a dull thrum than anything.  Stiles leans against the wall, head tilted back, fingers drumming idly off the abrasive bricks.

“Is anyone else here?” Scott asks, leaning beside his friend.  

“Malia’s front and center, waiting for Allison,” Stiles replies, “but I haven’t seen anyone else.  You?”  

“Nope.”  Scott tilts his head back as well and takes a gulp of stale summer air.  His chest is a little sore, but it’s no worse than it usually is after lacrosse practice.  The beer he drank has gone to his head and he feels pleasantly dizzy.  Before he can stop himself, a laugh spills from his lips, one that’s immediately echoed by Stiles.

“You feeling alright?” Stiles asks, tilting his head to the side, mouth crooked in a not-quite smile.  He looks like a mess, all mussed up hair and wide eyes and glistening skin.  It’s a look Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to, no matter how many times he sees it.  

“Feeling great,” Scott says, grinning lazily and laughing again.  Stiles laughs too but it’s less of a chuckle this time and more something lower, something that makes something thrum in Scott’s stomach.  His mouth doesn’t close either; it hangs open slightly and as his eyes drop to Scott’s mouth, he licks his lips once.

On the other side of the wall, the noise suddenly surges, as people cheer and clap their hands.  It seems likely that they’re welcoming the main act to the stage but as much as Scott wants to support Allison, he thinks he can postpone that for a few minutes.  Before he can lean in, Stiles surges forward and kisses him, fingers curling into Scott’s hair.  Scott tugs him in closer, fisting his hands into the back of Stiles’ ratty t-shirt, advertising some local band that fell apart months ago.  It rips a few seconds later, sending his fingers skating across the warm skin at the base of Stiles’ spine.  Before he can apologize, Stiles groans against his mouth and presses his teeth into Scott’s lip.

“Band sucked anyways,” he mutters.  For a few moments, Scott expects him to pull away; instead, Stiles ducks his head and starts dragging his mouth along Scott’s jaw.  When his hips roll forward, their belt buckles clack together, the noise seeming way too loud in their close quarters.

Thankfully, their belts don’t stick around for too long.

By the time they make it back inside, both of their throats are littered with hickies and the band is playing their last song of the night.        

x.

“Think I can hit Jackson in the head with this?”

“What?” Scott asks.  He’s been talking to Malia for the last few minutes, spiritedly debating the merits and drawbacks of large shows versus small shows.  When he glances down at where Stiles is laying with his head on Scott’s stomach, Stiles is holding the nub of a joint between his fingertips, staring at it with one eyebrow cocked.  

“Think I can hit Jackson with this?” Stiles asks again.  “He’s over by the pool, I think.”  

“I wouldn’t try,” Scott says.  “You might get it in someone’s drink.”  He can hear Jackson’s voice somewhere down below, rising above the din of the party, but their position prevents Scott from seeing him.  They’re on the lowest roof of Lydia’s huge house, almost two storeys above the ground.  Below them, there’s a party raging, attended by what seems like every teenager in Beacon Hills.  Allison and Malia are sitting beside them; Malia is leaning back against the wall, taking occasional sips from an old flask, while Allison is between her legs, another joint stuck between her lips.  It feels nice, to be slightly removed from the chaos, to be able to observe without being completely sucked in.  Scott’s inhaler is tucked into his pocket and he knows that Stiles has a spare in the pocket of his shorts, but he hasn’t needed to touch either of them all night.

“I started learning a new song last night,” Malia says, passing her flask to Scott who, in turn, hands it down to Stiles.

“Really?” Stiles asks, spluttering slightly.  He has no idea what Malia’s drinking, but it tastes like nail polish remover and burns like fire down his throat.  “Did you finally get a new snare?”

“No,” Malia says with a frown.  “I just put duct tape over the hole.”  

“What happened to the money you saved for your snare?” Scott asks, absently running his fingers through Stiles’ messy hair.      
        
“Needed more drumsticks.  I snapped the last pair last week.”  Scott remembers all too well; at the last show Malia and Allison’s band had played, Malia capped off their encore song by slamming her sticks into the cymbals hard enough to send splinters flying all the way to the back row of the venue.    

“How’s your guitar going, Scott?” Allison asks, nudging his shoulder with her foot.  “Getting any better?”

“A little bit,” Scott says with a shrug, glancing down at his hand.  He’s starting to get callouses on his fingertips, but he still ends up with blood on the strings if he plays too long.  “I don’t think I’ll be joining your band anytime soon.”  

“That’s okay,” Allison says, ruffling his hair.  “You’re our best cheerleader.”  She slowly gets to her feet, wobbling just slightly as she murmurs something about needing to use the bathroom.  Scott watches her, ready to move in case it looks like she might fall, but she reaches Lydia’s window fine.  But before he can go back to running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, she slams the window and sits back down, face bright red.  

“Looks like that way is off limits for awhile,” she says, grinning tipsily.  

“Huh?” Stiles mutters, around what is either his third or fourth joint of the night.  He can’t quite remember.  “What’s up?”

“Lydia and Kira are having sex.  Or about to, at least.”  Allison giggles again and slides back into Malia’s lap.  “Looks like we’re stuck up here for a bit.”  

“Nah.”  Stiles sits up and when Scott looks at him, he can’t help but groan.  Even high, he recognizes the look in Stiles’ eyes all too well.  It _never_ means anything good and Scott has never gotten any better at resisting it.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.  Stiles takes one last drag off the joint, eyes slipping closed, letting the smoke flood into his throat.  He knows somewhere in his mind that what he’s about to do is the very definition of stupid, but the pot makes it easy to ignore that side.  Once his lungs have begun to ache, he slowly opens his eyes again and leans forward to press a kiss to Scott’s uneven jaw.  He tucks what’s left of the joint into Scott’s mouth before he empties his pockets into Scott’s lap.  

“There’s another way down,” Stiles says slowly.  He lays another kiss against Scott’s forehead before he gets to his feet and turns around to face the edge of the roof.  

By the time Scott figures out what’s about to happen, Stiles is already moving.  Scott scrambles to the edge of the roof just in time to see Stiles plunge into Lydia’s (thankfully almost empty) pool.  The splash manages to hit Lydia’s ex-boyfriend right in the face, soaking a shirt that Scott is sure cost a fortune.  

“Stiles!” Jackson yells once Stiles pops up for air.  “You fucking idiot!”  

“Oh shit,” Scott sighs.  He takes one last puff from the joint before turning around and handing it to Malia, along with his and Stiles’ stuff.  

“Can you watch that for a minute?” he asks, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it at Malia’s feet.  “If I don’t get down there, Jackson might drown Stiles.”  

“You’re not getting this back,” Malia says simply, sticking the joint in her mouth.  Scott shrugs; he’s sure that Greenberg is around if they need anymore.  He steps over to the edge of the roof and stares down, trying to stop his heart from racing out of his chest.  He’s jumped from higher, but Lydia’s pool is a lot shallower than the lakes in the preserve.  He shakes his head, finds a spot where he’s guaranteed not to hit anyone and jumps as far as he can.  

By the time he manages to defuse the situation between Jackson and Stiles, it’s safe to go back through Lydia’s room and Allison has fallen asleep with her head in Malia’s lap. 

x.

“What if there’s someone home?”

“Scott, there’s no one home.  I promise.   We’ll be fine.”  

“You said that _last_ time,” Scott says, peering through the chainlink fence they’re standing in front of.  It borders a sunken pool, glistening aquamarine underneath the afternoon sun.  Although the owners are Scott’s neighbors, he’s never met them before.  He’s sure they’re lovely people who still wouldn’t approve of two teenagers trespassing in order to use their pool.  

But it’s blazingly hot and humid and the power is out all across town.  There’s a few ponds and creeks back in the preserve that would probably do the trick, but getting to them is strenuous enough on a cool day, let alone when the mercury is threatening to spill over the thermometers.  It’s only the memory of the last time they trespassed that keeps Scott from hopping over the fence and going for a quick dip.

“Well, technically, I didn’t lie last time,” Stiles points out, fingers idly tugging at a loose link in the fence.  “There wasn’t anyone at the school when we _got_ there.  They just showed up when-”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott interrupts.  The house _does_ look empty; the back door is shut tight and there’s no movement, nobody passing by the large plate glass windows that face the pool.  

“You’re sure nobody’s home?” he asks again.  Stiles nods rapidly, already kicking his shoes off.

“Positive.  C’mon, if we don’t jump in soon, the whole pool might evaporate.”  Stiles tugs his socks off as well before clambering over the top of the fence.  Scott hesitates for a few seconds, long enough for a drop of sweat to slide down his forehead and directly into his eye.  That’s the last straw and after kicking his shoes off as well, he pulls himself over the low fence.  By the time he gets his feet on the concrete, Stiles has already jumped into the shimmering water.  He pops up, hair stuck to his forehead, t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders.  

“I think I’ve officially found paradise,” he announces like the most solemn statement, before diving back under the water.  

As it turns out, Stiles is only slightly exaggerating.

“We should have brought some towels,” Scott says, floating on his back.  It’s the first words they’ve exchanged in at least ten minutes.  His hair is sopping wet and his eyes are stinging from the chlorine.  

“Huh.  Knew we forgot something,” Stiles says.  He’s perched on the pool ladder, toes hooked around a rung, arms stretched out on the concrete.  His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed, like he’s a snake basking on the tarmac.  His cheeks and neck are starting to turn red but before Scott can say anything about sunscreen, he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

There’s someone standing on the other side of the window and based on their expression, they’re just as surprised to see Scott as he is to see them.

“You said there was no one home!” Scott exclaims, splashing over to the edge of the pool as fast as he can.  

“There wasn’t!” Stiles retorts, scrambling up the ladder, feet slipping on the wet concrete.  “They must have just got home!”  Scott doesn’t answer; he vaults over the fence and grabs his shoes, nearly tripping in his haste.  Stiles is hot on his heels.  He practically tumbles over the fence, just in time for the owner of the house to come out the back door, already yelling at them.  

“Sorry!” Scott yells over his shoulder, running towards the thick line of trees that separates his house from his neighbor’s.  

“Won’t happen again!” Stiles yells as well, earning a long string of profanity from the owner.  

Scott doesn’t stop running until the house is just a sliver of white through the trees.  His feet are sore from stepping on twigs and rocks and his heart is beating way too fast for comfort.  He leans against the nearest tree trunk, taking slow deep breaths.  

“Okay, that was my bad,” Stiles says, leaning beside Scott.  He sounds sorry, and he genuinely is, but he can’t wipe the grin off his face.  He leans his forehead against Scott’s shoulder, panting slightly.  Although he’s a little bummed that his plan got screwed up, it’s definitely cooler in the trees than it was walking along the road earlier.  He can feel a sunburn throbbing on his face but that isn’t enough to make him regret getting caught.

“I hope they didn’t get a good look at us,” Scott says quietly, absently rubbing his thumb against the inside of Stiles’ wrist.  “Mom’s gonna be pissed.”

“I think we’re good,” Stiles says, looking back over his shoulder, just in case.  “I think.  We should be fine.”  Scott just nods.  After a few moments, he turns, shifting so that he’s standing in front of Stiles. 

“We are not doing that again,” Scott says, leaning his forehead against Stiles’.  “Alright?”

“Doing what?” Stiles asks.  There’s water still sitting at the base of Scott’s throat and he idly thumbs at it, smearing it along the line of Scott’s collarbone.  “Trespassing in that pool or trespassing in general?”

“Both, preferably.”  Scott brushes over Stiles’ hip, cool and slippery where his shirt has rucked up.  “But we can start with the pool, for now.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs, craning his head to brush his lips along Scott’s neck.  “I can deal with that.”

When they stumble through the front door of Scott’s house an hour later, they’re met with a blast of a cool air, indicating that the power has come back on.  They’re also met with Scott’s mother, standing in the entranceway, arms crossed over her chest.  

“I just had a very interesting phone call from our neighbors,” she says immediately.  “Don’t suppose you happen to know anything about that?”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck.  

“Don’t tell me that,” his mom says.  “I told them you’d call to apologize.”

“I’ll see myself out,” Stiles mutters, taking a step backwards towards the door.

“You’re apologizing too,” Melissa says, handing Scott the phone.  “And _then_ you can see yourself out.”

Scott isn’t allowed to see Stiles for three days.  It’s the punishment his mom reserves for when she’s really frustrated with him and even though they still text constantly, those three days seem endless.  

A week later, the power goes out again.  This time, they head to the preserve, towards a creek that Stiles remembers from the few times he tagged along on his dad’s search parties.  The water is crystal clear and cold as ice and absolutely beautiful.

It’s also on private property.  Thankfully, they don’t get caught until _after_ Stiles slides his hand from Scott’s shorts and licks it clean.

x.

Rain has been lashing against the window for most of the afternoon.  The sky is covered in iron grey clouds and it’s dark as evening in Stiles’ bedroom.  For once, the television is silent.  Music is drifting from his computer, an art punk album that he hasn’t gotten around to deciphering yet.  He’d meant to show it to Scott, but that had been half an hour ago and they hadn’t paid any attention past the first song.  

Scott’s denim jacket is dangling off the end of the bed, brushing against his foot every time he moves.  His shirt is gathered just under his armpits, pushed there by Stiles’ relentlessly moving hands.  His fingers are currently splayed across the expanse of Scott’s back and every so often, his nails dig in, undoubtedly leaving welts.  

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, tossing his head back as Scott’s hips press down against his.  Even through their jeans, it’s enough to make him see explosions behind his closed eyes.  He’s _so_ glad that his dad isn’t home; he’s pretty sure that he couldn’t hold himself back even if he wanted to.   

“You alright?” Scott asks, tightening his hand on Stiles’ hip and pressing a hard kiss to the side of Stiles’ neck, an inch away from where his pulse is throbbing underneath his skin.

“Oh man, _so_ alright.”  Stiles tugs Scott up so that their mouths can fit together again.  When Scott leans back, Stiles chases after to tug gently at his lip ring, amber eyes gleaming.  Scott groans and pushes Stiles’ shirt up, thumbing at the patch of hair leading into Stiles’ jeans.  This time, it’s Stiles that groans, as he sits up and reaches for the hem of his shirt.  

“I’m going to find us some new music,” he says, words slightly muffled as he yanks his shirt over his head.  “By the time I get back, I want your shirt gone.”  

Stiles has hardly slid off the bed before Scott’s shirt hits the floor.  He gets himself settled against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the moles spattered across Stiles’ back.  After a few moments of rapid typing, Stiles brings up another album, one they’ve been in love with since the start of summer.  Scott finds himself automatically mouthing the words as Stiles comes back across the room, climbing back onto the bed with a minimal amount of finesse.

“Did you want to move?” Stiles asks, hovering over Scott with his lip sucked into his mouth.  Scott shakes his head and slides his hands around Stiles’ waist, fitting them to his hips.

“No, c’mere,” Scott says, barely registering a rumble of thunder that shakes the whole house.  Stiles grins, bright as an explosion, before he surges downward, kissing Scott like he’ll never get another chance.  Scott hooks his ankle around Stiles’, uses the leverage to grind against Stiles’ thigh.  It’s rough, but it’s enough to relieve some of the pressure.  

By the time the storm begins to peter off, Scott is pretty sure that he has a line of hickies from one side of his chest to the other.  He’s left a few of his own on Stiles’ shoulders and his hands are tucked down the back of Stiles’ jeans.  The next time Stiles’ teeth rake over Scott’s lip ring, Scott groans and squeezes Stiles’ ass.  The noise Stiles makes is half moan and half curse word and unlike anything that Scott has ever heard.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, fingers clenching in the tangled sheets on either side of Scott’s head.  He drops his forehead against Scott’s and lets his eyes drop closed.

“God, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, mouth brushing against Stiles’ chin.  “You’re so…”  He trails off and squeezes again.  This time, Stiles groans, rolling his hips down against Scott’s.

“We can, if you want to,” he says quietly, trying and not quite succeeding at keeping his voice steady.  When Scott doesn’t answer, Stiles opens his eyes and finds Scott looking up at him, pupils blown, mouth curled into a smile all too sweet for the situation.  

“Do you want to?” Scott asks, brushing a piece of hair away from Stiles’ forehead.  Stiles nods; he’s wanted to for years, but he knows he’s ready now, knows that there’s nothing to worry about.

“Yeah,” he sighs, kissing Scott’s upper lip, every one of his limbs trembling like he’s on a caffeine high.  “I do.  ‘M ready.”  

Scott’s chest grows tight at that, tighter and tighter until it feels like he can’t breathe.  But it’s not an asthma attack; it’s something else, something better and more overwhelming all at the same time, something so inextricably linked to Stiles.  His throat is dry as a bone and he has to swallow before he can speak.  

“Okay,” he says, sliding his hands out of Stiles’ jeans and up into his hair.  “Tell me if I hurt you.”  

“I will,” Stiles says, kissing every part of Scott that he can reach.  “Promise.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to tell Scott anything.

x.

Scott never wants to see a marshmallow again.

He’s lost count of how many he’s eaten in the last two hours, both on their own and packed into s’mores.  He can still taste melted chocolate on his tongue and he’s pretty sure that his sugar rush is about to come grinding to a halt at any moment.  His hand is throbbing slightly from having sparks land on his skin while feeding the fire and his chest is a little sore from inhaling smoke.

They’re deep within the Preserve, miles from any other campers.  Allison and Malia had picked the spot, which is a massive clearing surrounded by trees that seem to stretch right up to the canopy of stars above.  There’s a number of tents dotting the edge of the clearing and the middle is taken up by a roaring fire.  For seats, they’re using blankets and a few small logs that Malia rolled over (the girl is ridiculously strong) and there’s junk food wrappers scattered everywhere.  

It’s been a fun night, filled with stories, drinking games and off-key singalongs to the music piping from their phones, but the whole thing is so bittersweet that Scott feels it like a weight on his chest.

Stiles has noticed.  For the last hour or so, Scott’s gaze has been more and more directed right into the fire and his grin hasn’t been as forthcoming as usual.  As the others have began to retreat back to their tents to sleep (or do other things that they _really_ aren’t being quiet about), it becomes more and more clear that something’s eating at him.  

Stiles waits until Boyd and Erica slip away before he scoots even closer to Scott and nudges him with his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer.  Scott stays quiet for a few moments, hands clasped between his thighs, staring straight ahead.  Eventually, he shakes his head and sighs, shoulders sagging.

“I was just thinking,” he says quietly.  “Thinking that this might be the last night we’re all together like this.”  

“Hey, that is _not_ happening,” Stiles says.  The same thought has been popping into his head for the last few weeks, usually around midnight just before he texts Scott saying that he can’t sleep.  Not once has he said the possibility out loud.  Just thinking about it is enough to make his stomach turn and he has to swallow a few times before he can speak again.  

“It’s _not_ happening,” he repeats, polishing off his beer and throwing it aside before slinging his arm around Scott’s shoulders.  “We’re not going to let it happen.  We’re not going to be like our parents.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks.  Stiles is literally shaking with things he wants to say, Scott can see it. Scott has the sudden feeling that this has been eating away at Stiles for weeks, that he's been examining the situation from every possible angle and approach.  

“Our parents,” Stiles says again.  He knows that he’s digging his fingers tight into Scott’s shoulders but he can’t stop himself.  “I asked my dad and he said he doesn’t talk to a single person that he went to high school with.  None of them.  It’s probably true about your mom too, right?”  Scott has to take a moment to think about it.  There’s a few women that his mom has a standing monthly lunch date with, but he thinks they might be from college, not high school.

The more he thinks about it, the more certain he is that the actual number is zero.

“But that’s not going to be us,” Stiles says, watching as realization slides onto Scott’s face.  “It can’t be.  I don’t want to lose any of this.”  He waves his arm around the clearing, towards the slightly crooked tents that contain his friends.  

“Not if I can help it,” he continues.  “We’ll just have to take a few weekends, put some more miles on Roscoe.”  

“I don’t know how many more miles Roscoe can take,” Scott says.  He can feel his mouth pulling into a smile and the weight on his chest has lessened.  Stiles has always been so headstrong, so damn determined to do anything he puts his mind towards.  Sure, there’s been some pretty spectacular failures for him but Scott trusts him.  If Stiles thinks that there’s a way they can manage, Scott believes him.   

“Duct tape solves everything,” Stiles replies solemnly.  “But we’ll make plans, yeah?  We’ll pick days to go see everyone.  We’ll plan it all out.”  Truth be told, he’s already started, marking up two calendars with potential dates and downloading maps with the quickest ways to the other schools his friends are going to.  

(Never mind that Lydia is going to MIT and Kira to NYU.  Stiles has always wanted to go on a cross-country road trip.)

“Okay. We should get an air mattress,” Scott says thoughtfully.  “Or some extra sleeping bags.  I’m sure they can come visit us too.”  It’s going to be a tight squeeze for sure.  The apartment they’ve settled on is a two-bedroom, one room for Allison and Malia and one for him and Stiles.  But he’s sure that they could make it work.  

“Yeah.  That would work,” Stiles says.  “Might have to institute a rule of no sex in the living room though.  Lube is really hard to get out of carpet.”  

Scott _really_ wishes that he didn’t already know that fact.  

“You really think any of them would follow that?” Scott asks with a laugh, tugging Stiles into his lap.  Stiles shrugs and shifts his knees so that they’re digging into the log on either side of Scott’s waist.  

“Probably not.  We can at least make them pay to clean the carpet.”  Stiles’ lips are hovering right above Scott’s, so close that Scott can practically taste the beer on them.  He settles his hands low on Stiles’ hips, even as he glances around to make sure that all of their friends have truly retreated to their tents.  

“Sounds like a plan. We'll make it work,” he says quietly after he’s finished looking around.  He gently rubs his thumb over the patch of skin above Stiles’ waistband.  It’s one of the places that Stiles would like to get a tattoo, in an alternate universe where the sight of needles doesn’t make his skin crawl.  Getting his nose pierced was bad enough.

"We will," Stiles says, more for his own benefit than Scott's. While the queasy feeling of uncertainty hasn't left his stomach completely, it's lessened enough for him to lean down and kiss Scott, tongue gently trailing along his bottom lip.  When he reaches Scott’s lip ring, he seizes it with his teeth and tugs gently, enough to make Scott sigh quietly and press his fingertips into Stiles’ sides.  Stiles presses ahead, loosely draping his arms around Scott’s neck, sliding his tongue between Scott’s lips.  

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s experienced it; kissing Scott gets him drunker than any alcohol he could ever consume.      

x.

Stiles has never really found Beacon Hills to be a beautiful town.

Sure, every so often, he sees something that takes him by surprise; a planter full of fresh flowers in a park, the glint of the sun off a clean window, a long stretch of road completely deserted.  But for the most part, he thinks it just looks like a city, full of cracked sidewalks and boarded up buildings and alleys crossed with police tape.  He spent so much of his life waiting for the day that he would be able to leave (with Scott and his friends at his side).  

But from the lookout in the Preserve, hundreds of feet above the city, Beacon Hills actually looks… well, not beautiful.  But it doesn’t look like the city Stiles wants to run away from.  It looks like a familiar face and suddenly, the thought of leaving feels overwhelming, like a rock sitting on his chest.  

But it’s a little too late to change his mind.  Tomorrow, bright and early, is move-in day for both him and Scott.  He’s spent the last week running on full cylinders, racing from one end of town to the other, making sure they have everything they need for their apartment.  

Now, he’s tired.  He’s tired and scared and, frankly, completely unsure about whether or not he’s ready for what tomorrow is going to bring.   

“Are you okay?”  Stiles twists slightly in order to face Scott.  Stiles isn’t sure how long it’s been since they last talked.  He’s been sitting beside Stiles for the last half hour, leaning against the Jeep’s wheel well, battered guitar slung across his lap.  Every so often, a single chord rings out from his fingers, echoing and disappearing through the trees.  His fingers move so much better than they did mere weeks ago and even as Stiles opens his mouth to answer, he’s transfixed for a few moments by the simple action of Scott’s fingers flexing to form another chord.  

“I don’t know,” he answers.  He glances back out at Beacon Hills and sighs.  The sun is rapidly disappearing beyond the horizon and lights have begun to appear in the valley, twinkling like a distorted reflection of the stars above.  He thought that he knew everything Beacon Hills had to offer, knew all the secrets hidden down its alleys and in its crumbling warehouses.  But from up here, the city looks sprawling, looks like it’s full of places he’s never discovered.  Something tight begins to unfurl across his chest and he has to take a deep breath of clear night air before he can speak again.  

“I thought leaving would be easy.  But from here, things actually look… it looks like home.  I don’t know,” he mumbles, scratching at the back of his neck and leaning his head against the Jeep.  “I’m just overthinking things.”  He really wishes that he had some weed, even if it was some of Greenberg’s weak shit.

“It _is_ home,” Scott says with a frown, peering down at the valley.        

“But what if it isn’t?” Stiles asks.  “What if it feels like home now and then, later, we just forget about it?  What if we leave the whole thing behind?”  

“Stiles,” Scott murmurs.  He drops his fingers from his guitar strings and wraps them around Stiles’.  Stiles immediately seems to calm down a bit, loses some of the frantic energy pulsing across his face.  

“We’re not leaving it all,” he says slowly.  “We’re not leaving _this_ behind.”  He knows that, underneath it all, that’s what Stiles means, what he’s really afraid of.  As soon as he says it, Stiles sighs in relief and squeezes Scott’s hand tighter.  

“You think so?”

“I know so.”  Scott says it like it’s the most unshakable of foundations, like it’s a building with no chance of ever crumbling.

If it was coming from anyone else, Stiles would laugh and retort that even the Titanic sank.  But Stiles believes Scott.  It’s one of the few things he _knows_ he believes.  

“I love you, man,” he says.  It comes out as more of a whisper than anything and it almost gets taken away on the slight breeze coming through the trees.  But Scott’s hearing has always been freakishly good so he catches the words just before they disappear.  

“I love you too,” he says quietly.  Down below in the valley, a long string of streetlights come to life, popping into existence like a flock of fireflies.  On the ground, it’s such a mundane, routine event but from their vantage point, Stiles thinks it might be one of the few points of beauty lingering on the edges of Beacon Hills.

When Scott glances over, Stiles looks awe-struck.  Scott feels almost bad about pulling him from his reverie, but there’s something he’s been wanting to do for a few weeks now, ever since his fingers got strong enough to play without bleeding.  Originally, he had planned to do it once they’d moved into their apartment, as a kind of housewarming gift, but there’s no time like the present.  

“Hey,” he says, softly clearing his throat.  Stiles jumps slightly, the awe abruptly sliding away from his face.  

“Yeah?” he asks, tongue sliding over his lip.  Scott knows that it’s a completely unconscious action but it’s still distracting enough to make him briefly consider setting the guitar aside and pulling Stiles into the back seat of the Jeep.  

But there will be plenty of time for that later.  His courage, on the other hand, might not stick around that long.  

“I’ve been learning something over the last few weeks,” Scott says.  “Do you wanna hear?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Stiles says.  He moves slightly, so that Scott has more room to play.  In the moments it takes Scott to get readjusted, Stiles finds himself almost bowled over.  Getting the guitar for Scott had been an impulsive decision, one he’s regretted once he’d gotten a good look at the instrument’s battered facade and slightly warped neck.  But now, Scott looks like he’s been playing for years.  His hair falls slightly onto his forehead as he peers down at the placement of his hands; it’s starting to get shaggy again and the red is already fading.  He hums quietly and when he looks up, his eyes are closed.  

Stiles doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s definitely not the wavering, slightly unsteady but gorgeous voice that comes out of Scott’s mouth.  

“Passed out on the overpass,” Scott begins and Stiles feels his chest grow tight again.  But it’s not suffocating or restricting this time.  It’s a little overwhelming maybe, but in the best way possible.  

Scott doesn’t think.  He simply lets his fingers move, automatically strumming the chords he’s been memorizing since Stiles gave him the guitar.  He knows that his voice isn’t that great but he still sings, sings the song they’ve been in love with for years, discovered when they were freshmen on an album that was already ten years old.  

He only opens his eyes when he hears Stiles starting to sing as well.  

“I’m gonna stay eighteen forever.”  He leans forward slightly and places his hands on Scott’s knees.  He can feel the vibration from the guitar flowing through Scott’s legs and up into his fingertips.  When he looks up into Scott’s eyes, Scott’s crooked smile lights up his entire face and his voice hitches slightly.  But he keeps singing, glancing away only to guide his fingers through a slightly more complicated chord change.  

As they begin to reach the end of the song, Stiles can’t help but sing louder.  Eventually, his singing turns into off-tune yelling but he can’t be bothered to care.  All the unsteadiness has left Scott’s voice as he yells as well.  When his fingers fumble, he barely notices.  

“You’re just jealous ‘cause we’re young and in love!” Scott yells, tilting his head back.  Somewhere in his mind, he imagines the whole town hearing those words.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause we’re young and in love!” Stiles screams, scrambling to his feet and moving to the edge of the cliff.  Beacon Hills is laid out below his feet and it just feels so good to be alive and _scream._

By the time Scott stops strumming the guitar, Stiles’ throat feels raw and he’s not sure if he can speak anymore.  He turns around just as Scott is pulling the guitar off his shoulders and setting it on the hood of the Jeep.  There’s a little bit of sweat glistening on his collarbone and he twitches his fingers a few times.  Stiles gives him a few moments before he closes the space between them.  He presses his fingers into Scott’s wavy hair and Scott pulls him closer by the hips, one hand sliding underneath the hem of Stiles’ ragged shirt.  Scott fumbles along the side of the Jeep with his other hand, searching for the door handle.  He knows they have to be up super early tomorrow but tomorrow seems like the most distant point in time possible.

As Scott finally manages to tug the door open, a realization hits Stiles like a lightning bolt.  It makes him gasp slightly, which he buries against Scott’s neck, along with a few nips and hard kisses for good measure.          

For the most part, it doesn’t really matter if he never comes back to Beacon Hills.  His home, his heart, is right in front of him.       

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


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